


Strange Magic

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Best Way to Describe It, Castiel To The Rescue, Humor, M/M, Mortified Dean, Scheming Charlie, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smut, Some angst, Stripper Castiel, Timid Bisexual Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Dean opens the door to the restroom with a sigh, only to suck it right back in: “Oh my God!”Cas glances up at him with a grin. “Oh hey there, Green Eyes. I shouldn’t be surprised you’re a super fan after that experience earlier.” He throws his head back when Dean’s horror-stricken expression doesn’t change, exchanging his grin for a scoff, “What? You’ve never seen another guy beat his meat?”





	Strange Magic

“Run it by me again why I’m being coerced into seeing half-naked, lubed-up men in spandex prance around a stage to outdated 2000s R&B songs?” Dean gripes over the techno music and at least a thousand women fanning themselves with their arena guide. It’s a wonder they sell out of tour shirts, granted how many of them can’t stop chattering about their lifelong dream to be stripped and ravaged by the barbaric beasts of the metrosexual west.

On the other hand, Dean has an advantage with the female to male ratio—something he hasn’t had since joining dance in freshman year. (Not by choice, for the record. Only because his schedule got mixed up and it was too late to switch classes, so Dean decided to make the best of it, successfully performing the electric side into five girls’ DMs.) The only other testosterone-powered vessel he spots is a man in the adjacent aisle. He’s a bigger guy with naturally frosted beard tips to match his ghosted-over expression when the lights flash to the beat of “Hot in Herre” by Nelly, and his twenty-something-year-old daughter squeals. She’s cute, despite her affinity for recreating the climax of every horror film ever made.

“Coerced is a strong word!” Charlie yells. She kicks her feet up onto the unoccupied seat in front of her with a smirk. “I prefer _grooming!”_

“What’s that supposed to—?”

“—meaning all of you beautiful ladies I see out here tonight are going to have the possibility of being part of the magic!”

Dean snaps his head to opposite end of the stage, to a woman in a long, low-cut black dress. He fears if she parts her mouth, even in just mild shock, her skeletal face will crack under the pressure.

“Now, girls, tell me, are you ready to say abracadabra?”

“Abracadabra!”

“What’s that? I don’t think the guys heard you!”

“This is stupid,” Dean scoffs, “what’re they gonna do, appear out of thin air?”

**_“Abracadabra!”_ **

Dean’s jaw drops instantly. Not because the men are hot—of course they’re hot, they have to be—but because there was smoke, and now there’s only eight barbaric, half-naked, lubed-up men with metrosexual tendencies standing horizontal to on the stage. They’re cloaked by the blue blanket of the stage lights, so all he can see is the outline of their bowed heads and their connecting shoulders—ridiculously jacked, even underneath their thin white shirts. The music shifts to Fergie’s “London Bridge”.

All eight heads simultaneously shoot up. They strut their way to the top of the stage in time with the beat of the many “oh shits”. Then, with Fergie’s first inquiry about one of her many rendezvous on the overpass, rip off their shirts, leaving only those weird parachute pants that make the 80s look like a decent decade. They’re still awful pants, but the guys are so massive, they manage to fill them in around the thighs. So when they thrust forward, you can see the faint outline of—

Aannnd the pants are gone.

The music quickly shifts to “Scream” by Usher. The audience goes wild. The men fan out on each side until only one remains. He’s definitely the biggest of them, built like a horse down to the long face and jutting jaw. The spotlight he’s under only enhances his milky white skin and the pockets of sweat between his shoulder blades. Thanks to Charlie’s obsessive presale alerts, Dean can even see the tattoos running across his wrists are shackles. He “breaks out” of them once he jumps off the stage and weaves through the crowd.

As if Guy Fieri couldn’t be more in the wrong place at the wrong time, his daughter catches Nicki Served Six Months’ eye. He wastes no time hosting her small body up and over him, so her legs are wrapped around his midriff as he carries her to the stage. _Everything_ of hers is practically Jell-O when she’s seated. Nicki takes the opportunity to address her over his mic. “What’s your name, baby girl?”

Through short, staccato breaths the girl manages to whimper her name.

“Liz? That’s a pretty name,” he replies. “I’ll treat you real good.”

Seconds later, the lights start to flicker: It’s like an old-fashioned motion picture. Dean watches each frame with increasing interest—for the girl, of course. It shows the man sinking to his knees, running his hands up the outside of her thighs, edging closer and closer to her crotch. He stops, just inches away, and hoists her up again, out of the seat, and flips her onto her back. He then pins her hands above her head and rocks down onto her, leaving just a mere few inches between them as Usher asks if his girl wants to scream.

(The audience responds an enthusiastic yes.)

He moves back down to her legs. He spreads them apart and places them astride each shoulder. He grinds over her from that angle, and even has the audacity to grin when she covers her face with her newly freed hands. Then, he grabs her and stands them up one more time until his face is masked by her crotch. He bounces her in place by the globes of her ass—which, by now, have no doubt seen many lifetimes, past and future—before his hands travel up the length of her sides and underneath her arms, gently lifting her up to set her back down. The music fades to him helping her and her sea legs back to her seat amongst the caffeinated ocean.

“My oh my, that Gadreel can make any woman scream, am I right?!” The host’s disembodied voice causes Dean to jump—the first movement he’s made since they introduced Gadreel. “Alright, ladies, I don’t think you’re ready for this. He’s returning to our show, so make sure to give him an improper welcome. This Midwestern delicacy has small town values and big city boldness. His name means Angel of Thursday, but he’ll make your day any day. Give it up for Castiel!”

“ _Dirty, rotten…”_

Dean snaps his head to the speakers.

_“Filthy, stinkin’…”_

“I’m sorry,” Charlie interjects to the sight of Dean full-on head-banging after a few seconds, “do I see you… _enjoying_ yourself?”

Dean just nods through the music. “Warrant rocks!”

The music’s quickly drowned out by the man strutting the red and white-lit stage—not by the audience, though. It’s like that moment in the cheesy romcoms when he can’t see anything else. Castiel is gorgeous. _Beyond_ that—gorgeous with a side of Texas tanned toast, blueberry eyes, and two poached eggs you wanna pop. Just above that, a tattoo echoing Dean’s thoughts: a spread of feathers from his lower back to his shoulder blades and around his triceps. All that’s missing is his halo.

He begins sliding his hands from his chest to his abdomen—a slow, tantalizing movement Dean tracks like his livelihood’s invested in the plummet of Cas’s company—before slipping them beneath his spandex. Shifting them to the front of his… impressive stock, he sooner pulls out two small cans of whipped cream. He does a few tricks with his hands and raises his brows as a smile spreads the flaky crust around his mouth.

Dean feels like a disproportioned buoy, slowly sinking beneath the rocky current coming towards him. He can faintly hear Charlie, along with everyone else, taking the Lord’s name in vain, while Dean’s already broken multiple just scheming all the possible things Cas can do to him.

They’re seeing the girl next to Dean, right? Or the one over. There’s no way Cas is choosing him, right?

Cas’s warm breath on his neck and the way he effortlessly lifts Dean’s _ACDC_ shirt over his head seconds later proves him wrong. Even more so when he takes one of those bottles and sprays cream on the side of Dean’s neck. He laps it up with his mouth and grinds over him, and does the same with his left nipple. There’s no doubt Cas can feel Dean’s racing heart beneath it.

Dean bucks up, accidentally brushing Cas’s _very_ stiff shorts. Evident by the blush coating his cheeks, Dean panics. Cas, on the other hand, continues, spraying cream down the length of Dean’s torso. Dean tries to enjoy it despite bucking up into Cas again halfway into it.

Cas doesn’t look annoyed or disgusted. In fact, when he sets down his bottles, he’s smiling so hard, he’s pinching those blueberry eyes of his.

“You wanna touch me?” he asks, his question ricocheting off his mic as he splays out his arms. “Anything for you, Green Eyes.”

Dean, still covered in a mess of whipped cream and the faint tickle of Cas’s saliva, stands up with a little wobble. He blinks a few times and looks out at the audience—who, of course, do nothing but voice their unwavering approval.

“Hey,” Cas says, covering his mic. Dean snaps back to Cas. His smile’s closed, conveying a much softer expression. “Look at me—it’s only us.”

Dean takes a deep breath and nods. Slowly, like Elliot reaching out for E.T., Dean moves for Cas. His fingers graze the top of Cas’s breasts and pause. Cas helps him, wrapping his hands around Dean’s arms, gently guiding him. Dean gasps as his thumbs make the buds of his dark, hardened nipples bounce. Cas somehow remains perfectly calm, taking him lower, across the plane of his equally hard abs and sharp hipbones. His fingers barely hook onto Cas’s ass when he drops them.

“Make a grown man cry, indeed,” Cas retorts as Charlie hands him his whipped cream. He flips the bottles again before throwing Dean a wink. “Catch you later, Green Eyes.”

Dean slowly sinks back into his chair. The audience hasn’t quieted, and neither has the chatty redhead pushing him: “What the hell just happened?!”

“I think I just… arrived.”

“Ew!” Charlie exclaims, but even she, a lesbian, can’t suppress her grin as she hands Dean his shirt. “C’mon, I’ll show you to the bathrooms.”

 

 

“Are you sure these are the right bathrooms?”

“What other bathrooms would there be?”

Dean shrugs. He honestly can’t even argue when he doesn’t even remember how to properly _think_.

“Here, take this,” Charlie says, whipping out a badge from her Chewbacca backpack. “Security might question you.”

Dean takes the pass, but eyes Charlie skeptically. “Why would they—?”

“What’re you two doing back here?”

Why does Charlie always have to be right? Sighing, Dean turns around and flashes the badge.

“What about you?” The hefty security guard gestures to Charlie.

“Oh I don’t have one. I gotta run!”

“What?” Dean guffaws, stopping her just before she opens the doors they just came through. “Where are you going?”

“Uh, _home.”_

“Very funny.” He shifts in his stance when Charlie doesn’t, his expression turning as sour as the sticky cream on his chest. “What, you’re just gonna leave me here?”

Charlie shrugs. “Pretty much. If you don’t remember, I’m a flaming lesbian. Besides, you’re obviously having a really good time.”

Dean only blinks. Very aggressively.

“Gotta run!” she exclaims, kissing Dean on the cheek. “Love you!”

The security guard returns his thoughts and feelings when he rolls his eyes and stalks off down the hall again.

Dean opens the door to the restroom with a sigh, only to suck it right back in: “ ** _Oh my God!”_**

Cas glances up at him with a grin. “Oh hey there, Green Eyes. I shouldn’t be surprised you’re a super fan after that experience earlier.” He throws his head back when Dean’s horror-stricken expression doesn’t change, exchanging his grin for a scoff, “What? You’ve never seen another guy beat his meat?”

Dean shakes his head and forces his eyes to look anywhere but Cas’s cock, so thick and long, and the stained white tub beneath him because holy shit, how much can one person—?! “I’m… sorry, _superfan?”_

“Yeah,” Cas says, still stroking himself with his right hand as he points with his left, “your badge.”

Dean looks down at the item he’s now white-knuckling in his hand. “Charlie,” he curses.

“Sorry?”

“My best friend, she, um, ga-gave me—can you, you know, _not?_ With the…”

With his other hand, Cas reaches into the nearest stall and rips off a roll of toilet paper. “No problem, let me just…” Dean hears the toilet flush and the zip of Cas’s pants. “So your friend dragged you backstage?”

“That seems to be the case, yeah…” Dean pauses. “Well, more like the whole show. She asked if I wanted to see Chuck’s Angels, I said no. I asked her why _she_ wanted to go since she isn’t into dick. She told me it was to ‘fulfill a dream she’d never have’, then offered to pay me a dinner beforehand. And now I’m here.”

“Well I’m glad she did,” Cas states, moving closer. Only then does Dean realize he’s in normal clothes. Just a simple red hoodie over an _R.E.M._ shirt and a pair of blue Air Max under cuffed black jeans.

“Yeah?” asks Dean, eyes falling on Cas’s lips, which turn up in a way that leaves hollow craters in each cheek.

“You’ve never been touched by another man before, have you?”

Dean gulps before shaking his head.

“How long have you known?”

Dean licks his lips. Almost everyone in his life has proven to be accepting, it’s just never something he could quite grasp himself. He’s always felt confused, anxious. The last thing he wants to do is disappoint someone if he’s not really sure he’s in love with them. Plus, it would spare him the disapproving looks of everyone else who’s less accepting. “Sometime in my teens. I’ve had doubts though, you know. On and off.”

“Was today an on or an off day?”

Dean’s face splits into a smile. “It started out off, like most. Then I got here. And you came up to me…”

“You looked really good,” Cas states, nodding. “Beautiful, even. The way you submitted to me, the way you let someone else take control… I was honored to witness it.”

Dean blushes before turning the heat on him: “What about you?”

“Well, I normally don’t cum this much after the first dance.”

“I can see that,” Dean laughs, gesturing to the tub. “So you like guys?”

“I like energy,” Cas says, stepping even closer until he’s practically air-hugging him as he whispers in his ear, “and yours is electrifying.”

Just as he says that, the speakers in the bathroom relay the screams coming from the auditorium. He pulls back with a shrug. “That’s my cue. I hope to see you back here before the end of the show. And if not… you can always call me. I’m down for an encore.”

Dean’s thrown by the remark until he pulls a business card from his back pocket.

“Abracadabra, indeed,” he scoffs.

 

 


End file.
